


Zombie

by TextualDeviance



Category: Strike Back
Genre: Angst, Barebacking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 08:03:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4869362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grief and anger has stolen the life from Michael's partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zombie

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 5x07 (episode 37), after the bank heist.

"I need it, Mikey."

Damien's voice was low and roughened with whiskey and too little sleep. Their hotel room in Vienna was palatial compared to many they'd shared over the years, but the grief and frustration that permeated the space made it seem as squalid as any dank, roach-infested shack in the back alleys of the developing world.

Damien had been like this they lost Julia, and nearly losing Finn as well--something for which he still somewhat blamed his partner--had seemed to stamp out what little civility and reason the already-feral man possessed.

It seemed eons had passed since they were regularly sharing a bed. They never talked about it--it was always fleeting, done without words, for the sheer joy and release of being with someone safe--but for Michael, it had been a haven. The nights he fell asleep with Damien's cheek against his back were the memories he returned to, time and again, at the most dire and desperate of moments. Most of the time, they were the only memories he really wanted. Perhaps that was why, aside from his excuse of being a gentleman, he'd never taken up Kim on her obvious interest. That part of his life belonged to another, now.

Not that Damien knew these thoughts, at least more than subconsciously. Instead, a steady stream of women always seemed to be waiting in line for him--that's what he talked about; what he openly did for relief--even as he kept spending more and more time growling profanities into his lover's ear on the nights when no woman was around to be had.

But then Julia happened. Michael supposed it was predictable, given that the two had been flirting for months. It wasn't like he didn't understand. Had he thought Damien could deal with his two worlds crashing together thus, he would even have proposed they all share a bed some night. But the opportunity never arose, and Julia, with her firecracker spirit and take-no-shit competence, undoubtedly filled Damien's bill just as easily as Michael himself did--and without the cognitive dissonance.

Michael never felt angry or jealous about it, though. On the contrary: He was pleased to see how happy they made each other. Damien needed that bit of joy in his life, and Julia was a perfect provider of it.

That perfection, however, was why it was so dangerous, and why, though Michael would never have said so, their choice to be together was undoubtedly fated to end in the wracking sobs it did. Hers or his, he couldn't have predicted, but eventually, it was inevitable that one would be cradling the limp, lifeless body of the other.

The man he loved--if he admitted to himself that was what this feeling was--had died along with her that day, and the near loss of his recently discovered son had rotted holes in the already empty shell of the person that once was. All that was left, it had seemed, was something subhuman, a creature focused only on the cold, obsessive pursuit of the vile woman who had been the cause of this misery.

Yet here the man was now, staring at the floor, rubbing a hand across his unshaven chin and trying to hide the trembling of it. Michael suspected Nina had had Damien the other night, and perhaps that fling was the catalyst: the thing that made him remember that there was more to him than the pink edges of a recently scabbed-over wound. All the effort of trying to track down the quarry that had stolen so much from them had made the deeper feelings bubble to the surface once again, and it was upon Michael's lap that this was now being placed.

There was no question as to the "it" Damien said he needed, though was a thing for which he had never before asked. Their early trysts had never crossed that line at all, then eventually, Michael found himself, almost without conscious understanding, submitting to Damien. Being filled by that heat and power sated a hunger he didn't know he had until then. It soothed him; it was balm for his soul, and eventually, he consciously accepted that this was, indeed, what he wanted. Apparently over the years, Damien had learned what it was that so satisfied Michael in those moments, and was now desperate enough to seek that comfort himself.

Michael almost asked him if he was sure, but the look on Damien's face when he opened his mouth to speak the question made the words unnecessary. So, without further conversation, he started taking off his clothes, Damien following the lead, and made his way to one of the room's disheveled beds, near the window that overlooked the city. He sat down, and looked expectantly at his lover.

Damien's eyes traveled over him, and he approached, settling in between Michael's thighs. A twinge ran through Michael's jaw as he momentarily thirsted for the heavy, cut cock just below his eye level, but following that impulse would have ended things far too quickly. Instead, he angled his chin up, and met Damien's mouth as it descended upon his.

Damien never whimpered, not in pain, not in pleasure, but the soft noise he made as their alcohol-soaked tongues entwined was definitely in that vicinity. When Michael reached up, palm rubbing across a nipple, the noise turned into a groan. Pushing Michael back onto the bed, Damien climbed up, straddling his lover.

Michael raised an eyebrow. When things were reversed, he'd always needed a little preparation, and some help from whatever salve or lotion was nearest to hand. Damien shook his head. Michael set his jaw. It was more than the connection, then. Damien wanted it rough. He wanted to feel alive--more than the bruises and wounds he already bore could provide. Though he supposed his partner would regret the decision in the morning, Michael complied. With a quick pass of a spit-moistened palm over the already wet head, he steadied his cock, and waited for Damien to impale himself upon it.

It was slower, at first, than Damien seemed to want to go. He winced as his muscles were forced to stretch and the nearly dry friction tugged on sensitive skin, but in a moment, as the initial discomfort passed, his pained expression relaxed, and was replaced instead by one of heady lust. With an animalistic growl, he settled in, and began to roll his hips.

Michael's eyes watered. He had forgotten the last time he'd penetrated anyone, much less this way, and though there was a tinge of pain on his side, too, the pleasure quickly overrode it. Damien's stocky, muscular body was heavy as he sat in the cradle of his lover's hips, and the depths were warm and tight. Bucking up to meet the rhythm, he let himself get lost in the feeling.

It was over too quickly. A sloppy kiss here, a bitten nipple there, and Damien's own hand working his cock while Michael was buried inside him brought things to a messy, loud end.

"Holy fuck!" Damien spat, as he dismounted and rolled over. Not exactly words of sweet love and gratitude, but Michael took them as such anyway. After a moment, he rose, aiming for a needed shower.

"Mikey?"

"Mm?"

"Mind some company?"

Michael smiled.

The hot water washed away more the day's dirt and sweat--more than the sticky traces of their coupling. Not thirty seconds into it, Damien moved into Michael's arms, buried his face in a warm, bruised shoulder, and began to cry.

Michael felt tears trickling from his own eyes, but he said nothing. For the moment, he was simply grateful that the shambling corpse of his friend--his partner, his lover--had returned to life.


End file.
